


whisper of pain (scream for love)

by LeapAngstily



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Past Relationship(s), future relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 19:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17188856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: “They’re making me lie.” Riccardo’s head is rested on Giampaolo’s shoulder, so Giampaolo can’t see the expression on his face, but he can hear how upset he is from his sullen tone. “They want me to pretend I’m injured, to avoid all the uncomfortable questions about why I’m not with the squad.”





	whisper of pain (scream for love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [behzaintfunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/gifts).



> For Kellin, who requested Pazzolivo cuddles in her Christmas wish list. This one turned out much angstier than I originally intended, but can you really blame me, with the Monto situation being what it is? I hope you still like it! ~~At least it has smut.~~
> 
> Happy Holidays, dearest, and thank you for being amazing and always there when I need you.

Riccardo shows no signs of surprise when he finds Giampaolo standing behind his door, only a day after Milan loses to Fiorentina and Verona draws with Livorno.

In fact, Riccardo looks alarmingly put together, all things considered. Giampaolo knows all of Riccardo’s ‘I’m okay’ faces – genuine and faked – and this one matches none of those.

“You gonna come in?” Riccardo asks with one raised eyebrow, his tone flat in a way Giampaolo cannot remember ever hearing him. Even back when he was getting death threats, there still used to be some fight in him. The urge to find Gattuso and kick his sorry ass for hurting Riccardo like this is strong, but the urge to follow Riccardo inside and make things better is even stronger.

“So, what brings you here?” Riccardo asks without meeting Giampaolo’s eyes, which is a sure sign he knows the answer even without asking. How could he not, when he knows Giampaolo better than Giampaolo knows himself?

“I wanted to see you.” Giampaolo takes off his shoes and hangs his coat, making sure Riccardo knows he has no intention of leaving anytime soon. “No, scratch that. I _needed_ to see you. Make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m OK—”

“Obviously you’re not,” Giampaolo interrupts him quickly, because he doesn’t want to hear Riccardo lying to him. “And it’s not your fault. You should’ve played yesterday, everyone knows that. You know that too, don’t you?”

“It’s not my call.” Riccardo shrugs in the same nonchalance Giampaolo doesn’t recognize.

“No, it’s not,” Giampaolo agrees softly, “but that doesn’t mean it’s right.”

Riccardo should be furious.

Giampaolo remembers Riccardo being just that, over the years, standing up to his superiors when he felt one of his teammates was being treated unfairly. He always took that part of captaincy seriously – he made himself available for his teammates and always gave so much of himself, even when it might have put him in trouble with the coaches or club management – and Giampaolo has always admired that fire in his best friend.

But apparently that fire doesn’t apply when the player being treated unfairly is Riccardo himself.

Riccardo purses his lips and crosses his arms across his chest, the silence stretching. It feels like he’s putting up a barrier between himself and Giampaolo, and for a fraction of a second Giampaolo can see the fear in his expression.

Riccardo has never been able to hide anything from Giampaolo – until now, he’s never even tried – and seeing him struggling now is breaking Giampaolo’s heart.

 

§§§

 

_“They’re making me lie.” Riccardo’s head is rested on Giampaolo’s shoulder, so Giampaolo can’t see the expression on his face, but he can hear how upset he is from his sullen tone. “They want me to pretend I’m injured, to avoid all the uncomfortable questions about why I’m not with the squad.”_

_Giampaolo wraps an arm around Riccardo’s shoulders and pulls him closer, into a comforting half-embrace. He has no idea what he is supposed to say, because the whole situation makes no sense to him: out of the two of them, Riccardo has always been the one with more talent, more drive, more things to give to his club._

_For him, Riccardo has always been the captain he was ready to follow until the end of the world, and it feels wrong that suddenly it’s Giampaolo who is supposed to have the answers._

_“Maybe I should just leave,” Riccardo continues when Giampaolo finds no words, a humourless chuckle accompanying the comment, “that’s what they want, anyways. But it doesn’t feel right. It’s still_ my _team.”_

_Riccardo has always been too stubborn for his own good. Giampaolo would probably have left already, if he had to face even half of the shit Riccardo has had to endure from the fans and the club over the years._

_But Giampaolo also remembers what Riccardo had to endure in order to join Milan – the club of his dreams, ever since he was old enough to understand football – and he cannot fault him for wanting to hang onto it until the bitter end._

_“I’m sure they’ll come around soon enough,” Giampaolo assures Riccardo and presses a kiss on top of his head. Riccardo’s hair smells the same as ever; he’s probably still using the same shampoo Giampaolo used to borrow from him back when they were still playing for the same club._

_“I hope so.” Riccardo doesn’t sound too convinced._

 

§§§

 

“I want to help you,” Giampaolo tells Riccardo, speaking fast to keep his friend from arguing, “I mean, I know I can’t force them to play you – even if they should – but can you just let me do _something_? I hate seeing you like this, Ricky.”

“I told you I’m fine,” Riccardo snaps back, too quick to sound even remotely convincing. He’s still not meeting Giampaolo’s eyes.

There was a time when Riccardo clung to Giampaolo for comfort. Back then, all Giampaolo had to do to make things better was to embrace him and kiss away his worries. But that was years ago, before they both got married and had kids.

Sometimes (always) Giampaolo thinks he made a mistake, because even now, years after they decided to break off whatever it was that was happening between them, Riccardo is still the last person he thinks of before he goes to sleep and the first one on his mind when he wakes up.

“We’re still friends, aren’t we?” Giampaolo asks, tone gentle, almost uncertain. Looking at Riccardo’s nervous posture and uncaring façade, Giampaolo feels Riccardo is light years away from him. “You don’t need to pretend with me. Please, Ricky; I’m worried about you.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” Riccardo whispers. The mask drops, the corners of his mouth downturned and uncertainty filling his previously emotionless eyes. “It’s too late. All I can do is wait for January, so I can get away. It’s the only way.”

_It’s too late._

The words echo in Giampaolo’s head, except the message is completely different from what Riccardo is saying out loud.

 

§§§

 

_“At least you’re being called up again. That’s a good thing, right?” Giampaolo is balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder as he packs his bag for training._

_Riccardo lets out a frustrated sigh before answering, “They’re not gonna let me play. I’m only being called up because they can’t keep pretending I don’t exists while half the team’s on sick leave.”_

_“You don’t know that!” Giampaolo tries to keep his voice reassuring, even though deep down, he knows Riccardo is probably right. “If you’re on the bench, there’s always a chance. You never know what happens during the match.”_

_A disbelieving silence. Then a whisper from Riccardo, “I wish you were still here. I don’t think I can do this without you.”_

_“Nonsense,” Giampaolo huffs out with a forced laugh, not willing to admit his heart skips a beat whenever Riccardo admits he needs him. “I know you, Ricky. You’re strong. Just hang in there – remember it’s not gonna be forever.”_

_“I’m trying.” Riccardo draws in a shuddering breath, and for a second Giampaolo thinks he might be crying. “Thanks, Giampi. I’m sorry for always bothering you.”_

_“It’s no trouble,” Giampaolo assures him, picking up his keys on his way through the front door. “You can call me any time. Anything for my favourite captain.”_

_“I’m not the captain anymore._ You _are.”_

_“You are to me,” Giampaolo breathes out the confession. Riccardo gives no indication that he hears his words._

 

§§§

 

“It’s not too late,” Giampaolo whispers, almost too quiet for Riccardo to hear him. But Riccardo does, his eyes snapping up to meet Giampaolo’s for the first time since he came here. All the masks gone, Riccardo now looks exhausted and frustrated more than anything. But there’s more: there’s hurt and fear and _hope_.

“It’s not too late _for us_ ,” Giampaolo clarifies needlessly, because obviously Riccardo caught the meaning the first time around. Perhaps he’s saying it more for his own benefit.

Riccardo has been asking Giampaolo to be there for him ever since he was first cut out of the Milan squad, but until now Giampaolo has refused to acknowledge the meaning behind the request. It’s so much easier to convince himself that they’re just best friends – that the feelings aren’t there anymore – that Riccardo keeps reaching out to him simply because he needs someone to talk to that’s not in Milan.

Deep down, Giampaolo has known from the start it’s only him Riccardo _can_ reach out to, because he’s the only person in Riccardo’s life with whom Riccardo feels safe enough to show his vulnerability. It makes them special, and it makes Giampaolo’s continued denial that much worse.

He’s been rejecting Riccardo’s calls for help, right when Riccardo needed him the most.

“I’m sorry, Ricky. I never meant to hurt you. I’ve just been a blind idiot,” Giampaolo apologizes as he takes a step toward Riccardo.

Riccardo is tense, and he flinches when Giampaolo approaches him, but he aborts the movement before he can step back. The distance is closed with two more steps, and then they’re standing face to face, practically same height, just like Giampaolo remembers them.

“Let me take care of you, _Riccardo_.” Giampaolo lifts his hand to caress Riccardo’s cheek carefully, his touch feather-light, like afraid he might break Riccardo with any sudden movement.

He only ever uses Riccardo’s full name when they’re like this, feelings out in the open, vulnerable in a way neither of them has ever been with anyone else.

He can feel Riccardo’s soft gasp against his mouth when the leans in and brushes their lips together.

It’s been almost 8 years since they last did this – it feels like an eternity has passed, like it’s something from a whole different life; but at the same time, it also feels like they never stopped, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, the way they slot together like two pieces of a puzzle.

 

§§§

 

_“I need you, Giampaolo,” Riccardo is definitely crying, Giampaolo’s groggy brain informs him, “I need you to make it go away. Make it hurt less.”_

_It’s the middle of the night. His wife and son are fast asleep just one room over. They need Giampaolo here, at home. But Riccardo also needs him, maybe more than his family does. Hell, Riccardo_ is _his family, in the way only someone you’ve known practically your entire life can be._

_“Go to sleep, Ricky,” Giampaolo tells him in the end, because he has a match tomorrow and he really can’t afford driving all the way to Milan in the middle of the night. “Try and sleep it off, and then call me again in the morning if you still need me to come over, okay? I promise I’ll be there.”_

_Riccardo doesn’t call back in the morning._

_The next time they talk, Riccardo makes no mention of his midnight call, and Giampaolo is almost relieved._

 

§§§

 

“Wait, Giampi.” Riccardo’s palm is splayed on his chest, but he’s not pushing Giampaolo away, only halting his movements before he can move closer. “If we do this, it’s going to undo it all.” His breathing is uneven against Giampaolo’s face, the words hitching, like he’s holding back a sob. “We can’t go back to being _just_ _friends_ after.”

“Do you want to be? Just friends, I mean?” Giampaolo breathes out the question, resisting the urge to lean in and close the gap between their lips. He’s certain – maybe unexpectedly so – and he needs Riccardo to be as well. He is stroking Riccardo’s cheek, his thumb brushing against the corner of his mouth, pulling a soft gasp from his lips.

“I thought that’s what you wanted.” Nothing more than a strangled whisper.

Giampaolo never wanted it. But what you want and what’s sensible are two very different things. He’s finally old enough to understand the difference.

“You’ve always been more than a friend to me, Riccardo,” Giampaolo admits, and it’s the God’s honest truth. “I’m done running from the inevitable. Are you?”

Giampaolo can feel Riccardo’s lips curling into a ghost of a smile, and then Riccardo lifts his hands up to his face, grasping his cheeks between both hands and crushing their lips together in a way that makes a mockery of the earlier brush of lips.

Riccardo kisses like his life depends on it, with no hesitation or uncertainty. He breathes in Giampaolo’s scent and taste, moans into the kiss, teeth scraping his lower lip; and then his tongue caresses the same spot, soothing the ache that has nothing to do with the bite.

Riccardo’s hands stay on Giampaolo’s face, like afraid he might slip away if he lets go. Giampaolo slides his hands down Riccardo’s torso and settles them on his waist, pulling him even closer, their bodies pressed together from hip to chest.

Riccardo is the first one to break the kiss, his forehead pressed against Giampaolo’s and breathing laboured. “I needed you. These past few months, I needed you more than you can imagine.” It’s not quite accusing, because they both know they’re both at fault – but more importantly, it’s the system that’s at fault, for not letting them explore their feelings when they first surfaced.

“I’m sorry, Riccardo,” Giampaolo whispers against his lips even though he knows Riccardo is not blaming him. “I’m sorry for not seeing it sooner. I’m sorry for making you wait.”

Riccardo leans back, just enough to meet Giampaolo’s eyes. The blue eyes are full of wonder and confusion, but none of it is transferred to his words when he confesses the feelings buried for so long, voice firm and certain in a way that makes Giampaolo forget any doubt he might have held, “I love you, Giampaolo. I should’ve never let you go in the first place.”

They need to stop running. Both of them.

Giampaolo searches for Riccardo’s lips with his again, a gentle nibble on his lower lip at first, then a deeper one, Giampaolo’s tongue pressing against Riccardo’s, eagerly exploring his mouth like he’s dreamed of so many times since they broke things off.

Riccardo is so responsive, tongue pushing back against Giampaolo’s and hands slipping lower, caressing the back of his neck, fingertips pressing against the most sensitive spots – the ones they discovered together back in their teens, before anyone had yet to have a chance to tell them this was something they were not allowed to have.

Giampaolo rubs Riccardo’s back through his shirt, reassuring circles that pull the cloth higher with each round. There’s a sliver of skin revealed above the waistband of his jeans, and Giampaolo presses his palm against it, greedy for more contact. He needs to feel Riccardo close to him, just like Riccardo needs him.

Riccardo is nestled inside his embrace, pressed so close it feels like he is trying to get right through Giampaolo’s clothes, to merge them into a single being.

A soft moan escapes against Giampaolo’s lips, and Giampaolo only knows it was Riccardo and not himself because the sound sends immediate shivers down his spine. Familiar warmth is puddling in the pit of his stomach, and Riccardo only urges him on by wriggling his hips against Giampaolo’s, in obvious attempt to get more contact.

“C’mon, let’s get more comfortable,” Giampaolo suggests when they pull apart for air.

Riccardo’s eyes flutter open, unashamed desire shining back at him, and for a second the rational part of Giampaolo’s brain is questioning his decision. Then Riccardo is smiling at him – lazy, relaxed, grateful smile – and Giampaolo realizes he would do anything to protect that expression.

Giampaolo steps back from the embrace, reluctantly dropping his hands from Riccardo’s body. He takes a hold of Riccardo’s hand and pulls it up to his lips, kissing his knuckles without breaking their eye-contact, as he starts leading him towards the bedroom.

Riccardo’s eyes are so beautiful: blue and wide, with tiny wrinkles appearing in the corners when he smiles, so expressive even when he tries to hide his feelings – Riccardo is everything Giampaolo is not, and yet they’re also so very similar. Maybe that’s why they could never let go.

He takes a hold of Riccardo’s shirt when they reach the bedroom, eyes searching for wordless permission before he pulls the shirt over his head. Riccardo’s hair sticks up on one side, and Giampaolo reaches out to fix the curls into more natural position with a soft chuckle.

“God I’ve missed this,” Giampaolo confesses in his softest tone, trailing his fingers down from Riccardo’s hair, caressing his neck and collar bones, rubbing lazy circles over his left nipple before he moves lower, tracing the abs that are still clearly refined despite Riccardo not playing for months.

Riccardo is looking down at his hand, following Giampaolo’s movements with unblinking eyes. Giampaolo, in turn, is studying Riccardo’s face: the way he licks his lips, just the tip on his tongue darting out, and then bites them closed again, like trying to swallow any sound that might otherwise escape them.

He wants to hear Riccardo.

He leans in and nibbles the lobe of Riccardo’s ear playfully, teasing the soft flesh with his teeth and lips. He breathes in the scent of Riccardo’s clean hair – there’s only a hint of his familiar shampoo – and hums an appreciative sound into his ear. He can hear Riccardo’s breath hitching when he moves his hands to open the fly of his jeans.

“I love you, Riccardo.”

He kisses Riccardo’s ear again, then his neck just below his ear. He’s tempted to leave a mark, like they used to do when they were younger, but he’s grown more cautious over the years. Instead, he licks a long, wet line down Riccardo’s neck, revelling in his taste. He can feel Riccardo swallowing under his lips as he pushes the jeans down to his thighs.

“Giampaolo,” Riccardo breathes out his name, more a whine than actual word, and he’s squirming under his touches. One of his hands is gripping the fabric of Giampaolo’s hoodie, at the same time pulling him closer, but also obviously wishing the garment gone.

“Sit down,” Giampaolo instructs, dropping a chaste kiss against Riccardo’s lips before he pushes him down to the bed. He kneels in front of Riccardo and pulls his jeans off, leaving him wearing only his briefs. “There’s no hurry, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Speak for yourself,” Riccardo grumbles, but there’s an adoring smile gracing his lips when he looks at Giampaolo. He then tugs on the collar of his hoodie pointedly. “Now, I want you naked.”

“As you wish.” Giampaolo stands up slowly, hands resting on Riccardo’s bare knees, and he steals another kiss before he pulls his hoodie and t-shirt off. Riccardo’s hands are on his belt before he has a chance to do it himself, undoing the buckle and then opening his trousers.

Giampaolo allows Riccardo to slip his hands inside his trousers – inside his underwear, too – and to push them down his legs. He steps out of the clothing once they’re down to his ankles. He has half a mind to feel self-conscious about his nakedness, but Riccardo gives him no chance for something like that, hands resting on his waist and pulling him closer, until Riccardo can press a kiss against his abdomen: the same adoring expression on his face when he looks up to Giampaolo through his lashes.

“Please?” Riccardo whispers against his skin, hands dipping lower, thumbs tracing his hipbones and teasing the tops of his thighs. “Please, Giampaolo, make it go away. Make me forget.”

Giampaolo takes a hold of Riccardo’s face, urging him to look up at him. There are tears in his eyes, droplets sticking to his eyelashes and wet tracks visible on his cheeks. Giampaolo leans down and catches Riccardo’s lips into a soothing kiss, wiping away the few tears with his thumbs.

“It’s not your fault,” he reiterates softly, lips brushing Riccardo’s with each word. “They’re the ones in the wrong, so don’t you dare blame yourself.”

“I know that,” Riccardo replies, tilting his chin up, kissing the corner of Giampaolo’s mouth, “but it doesn’t stop it from hurting. I feel useless; I hate it.”

“Just say the word and I’ll go kick Gattuso’s ass.” Giampaolo lets out a humourless chuckle, knowing full well the promise doesn’t carry much weight, and not only because he would definitely lose that fight. Riccardo is smiling sadly, Giampaolo can feel the expression against his cheek more than see it. “It’s only a couple weeks before January. I promise it’ll get better.”

A small part of Giampaolo wishes he could take Riccardo to Verona with him, but it’s a selfish wish – one that he will never say aloud – because Riccardo would never be happy with Serie B football, not while he’s still fit enough for the highest division. Riccardo always was the more ambitious one out of the two of them.

“Just kiss me, for now?” Riccardo pleads softly, his lips almost covering Giampaolo’s even as he says it, and Giampaolo is more than happy to oblige.

These kisses start gentle, tentative, because it’s been so long since they were this close physically. Somehow it feels more intimate now than ever before, maybe because it’s the first time they’re not pretending to be anything they’re not: Riccardo is not hiding any of his vulnerability or neediness; Giampaolo is finally acknowledging all his fears and shortcomings; and they both see it and feel the love regardless – or because – of it.

The kiss is deepening, Giampaolo’s tongue finding Riccardo’s again. Riccardo scoots back in the bed and Giampaolo follows, kneeling above him on the mattress, not allowing the kiss to be broken even as Riccardo lies back on the unmade covers.

Riccardo has wound his arms around Giampaolo’s neck somewhere along the way, and he arches his back to get more contact between their bodies, moaning into the kiss, his underwear-clad cock pressing up against Giampaolo’s uncovered one. Giampaolo’s breath catches in his throat, although it makes no difference when he is unable to breathe normally in the first place.

Riccardo’s briefs are in the way, but they’re too engrossed with each other to pull away long enough to remove them. Instead, Giampaolo slides his fingers under the waistband and pushes it just low enough to reveal Riccardo’s cock which he grasps in his hand immediately, earning another suppressed moan against his mouth.

He keeps his strokes slow and steady – or at least as steady as he’s capable of, with his hands trembling with arousal and his own cock aching with need – focusing on Riccardo’s every sound and reaction, until Riccardo is squirming underneath him.

Giampaolo must break the kiss with a hiss of pain when Riccardo bites his lower lip with far too much force.

“Sorry,” Riccardo whispers, voice strangled, his eyes fluttering open to meet Giampaolo’s gaze only for a moment before he closes them again. Giampaolo can see the red of his blood on Riccardo’s lips, just like he can taste the coppery taste in his own mouth. “I’m sorry, Giampaolo. I didn’t mean to do that. Please, don’t stop.”

“It’s okay,” Giampaolo assures him. He uses his free hand to wipe his mouth, leaving a line of fresh blood on the back of his hand. He then caresses Riccardo’s lips with his forefinger, spreading the blood more than removing it. “You don’t need to apologize. I get it.”

He gives Riccardo’s cock another firm stroke and bucks his own erection against Riccardo’s thigh at the same time, looking for the contact he’s been craving for so long.

Riccardo gets the hint: he wraps one of his legs around Giampaolo’s hip and uses it as leverage to pull him closer, until his cock is nestled between their bodies, the pressure steady but not enough to push him over the edge. He barely has room to keep moving his hand on Riccardo’s length, but he keeps up his strokes either way, determined to give Riccardo all the pleasure he deserves and more.

“I love you, Riccardo,” he repeats his earlier confession, words spoken against Riccardo’s ear, and now there’s no kiss muffling Riccardo’s breathy moan.

Riccardo’s both hands are clutching the back of Giampaolo’s neck as he moves down to kiss his neck, licking and biting the beautiful pale skin, gentle enough not to leave a mark, even if he’s well past caring about such things by now. One of Riccardo’s hands loosens its hold, like trying to move down to touch Giampaolo, but then he moans again, louder, and he’s back to holding onto Giampaolo with both hands.

It’s exhilarating, even addictive, to see Riccardo come so undone, when he’s always been such a control freak.

Riccardo’s leg around his hip is keeping him close, but Giampaolo does his best to push and rub his erection against Riccardo’s body, each movement bringing him closer to edge.

It’s not elegant or even particularly pretty; there are too many hands and too little room; too little planning and too much raw need for either of them to last long. They’re moving on instinct, just writhing against each other in their tight embrace; Riccardo bucking himself against Giampaolo’s hand and Giampaolo pushing back the best he can; limbs trembling and Giampaolo’s kisses against Riccardo’s skin aimless, until all he can do is breathe in Riccardo’s scent, open mouth pressed against his neck.

“I’m gonna—” Riccardo starts, but the words don’t come out, swallowed into another quick gasp for breath. Giampaolo gets it, though, tightening his hold on Riccardo’s cock and fastening his stroking until he can hear Riccardo moaning and feel the cum dripping between their bodies.

Riccardo sags against the crumbled bedsheets like a marionette with its strings cut loose, his leg sliding down from Giampaolo’s hip, the sole of his foot dragging down his thigh in an unintended caress.

Giampaolo is close – _so close_ – and he moves his hand from Riccardo’s softening cock to his own, jerking himself off with fast movements, and it doesn’t take long before he comes, leaving another line of sperm on Riccardo’s abdomen.

“I could’ve done that for you,” Riccardo tells him when Giampaolo slumps down on top of him, head rested in the crook of his neck. Riccardo’s long fingers immediately find their way into Giampaolo’s short hair, massaging his scalp in soothing circles.

“There’s always round two,” Giampaolo mumbles, lips pressed against his collarbone. Riccardo’s fingers against his scalp feel sinfully good, like something out of this world. “Fuck that’s good. Can we just stay like this for the rest of our lives?”

“I’m game,” Riccardo hums, and Giampaolo can hear the smile in his voice. “Your wife might’ve something to say about that.”

_Or yours._

Giampaolo doesn’t say it, he only rolls off Riccardo’s body and lies on his side, so they can face each other. “We’ll figure it out.”

He pecks Riccardo’s slightly parted lips, meaning it to be quick, but then he lingers, nibbling Riccardo’s lips as Riccardo goes back to massaging his head.

“Please stay?” Riccardo asks when Giampaolo releases his lips, blue eyes scared and hopeful at the same time.

“I will,” Giampaolo replies.

The smile Riccardo offers him is almost happy, the earlier pain and anxiety all but gone. For now, that’s enough.


End file.
